


catching the snitch (the ilvermorny remix)

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: It starts because of the Quodpot match.





	catching the snitch (the ilvermorny remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [hometown pride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12074640) by [winterfold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/pseuds/winterfold). 

> happy remix day, winterfold! please enjoy this silly thing. ♥

It starts because of the Quodpot match.

"_Absolutely_ not," Lovett says at breakfast, determinedly working his way through a heaping pile of scrambled eggs and his third cup of coffee.

Jon shares a look with Tommy, whose face is tight and pale. "Lovett," Jon says, trying to modulate his voice so that it comes out as soothing as possible.

Lovett pins him with a deeply unimpressed glare over the plate of eggs, jabbing the fork in his hand dangerously close to Jon's nose. "Don't use that tone with me, Favreau. It's not going to work today."

Jon sinks back in his chair, chews halfheartedly on a slice of bacon, and checks the big grandfather clock on the other side of the cafeteria with a sense of urgency commensurate to the situation. It's a quarter past ten, which means the match is supposed to be starting any minute now.

"Lovett, please," Tommy says, plaintive. "We really need you to help us fix the — the telewhatever. Neither of us knows how it works."

"That's not completely true," Jon says, kind of injured. He'd grown up on the outskirts of Wizarding Boston, but his mom was No-Maj. They'd had a television in the house mostly because it was one of the only things that kept him and Andy from fighting with each other from the ages of three through seven.

"Neither of us knows how it works quite like you do," Tommy amends, leaning forward, projecting earnestness.

If anything, Lovett just eats faster, hunching his shoulders and shoveling more egg into his mouth. He nearly chokes on the last bite, and Jon edges his cup of orange juice across the table. Tommy pounds on Lovett's back until he manages to swallow thickly. "Why do you think," Lovett hisses under his breath, expression pinched, "I'd let you use my television — which, by the way, is contraband! — just for some dumb Quidditch—"

"It's Quodpot," Tommy supplies. Jon imagines he's trying to be helpful, but Lovett just looks even more incensed.

"Fine. Fine! Why on earth do you think I'd let you use the illegal television in our dorm just so you can hole up together and watch some Quodpot match for four hours? Did you forget who broke the damn thing in the first place?" Lovett takes a grim sip of Jon's orange juice and makes a face. "Shit, this is sweet. Where's my coffee?"

"You finished it," Tommy says, but grabs the refilling pot from the center of the long table and pours Lovett another cup.

Lovett narrows his eyes at him. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he grumbles, brow still furrowed.

"We're really sorry about breaking it last time," Jon says, because that's the truth, at least. "We were—"

"Spare me the details of your bro-y bonding rituals," Lovett cuts in sourly. "They don't interest me in the slightest."

A trickle of dawning comprehension drips down the back of Jon's neck, the beginning of an idea taking root at the base. He leans in too, never mind the fork that Lovett's still wielding. "Bonding rituals," he says, enunciating slowly.

"Shut up," Lovett snaps, which is exactly when Ben ambles over and claps Tommy's shoulder.

"Vietor, Favreau, Lovett," he says, nodding at each of them in turn. "Hey, so some of the other Thunderbirds are heading out in a minute to the field next to the Herbology greenhouse. Professor Axelrod's hosting a watch party out on the lawn for the Quodpot Final, Mass Magpies versus Philly Flyers. Kickoff is in ten minutes. You in?"

Tommy freezes. Lovett gapes. Jon smiles up at Ben and shakes his head. He's got a good feeling about this, and his instincts are rarely wrong. That's what makes him such a good player on the school team. "Nah," he says, easy as anything, ignoring the way Ben's eyebrows rise in surprise. "You go on ahead. We've got other plans."

Ben's eyes ping-pong dubiously between the three of them. "Alright," he says after a moment, shrugging. "Suit yourself. Invitation still stands if you guys get less busy."

Lovett stares at Ben's retreating back for a long beat, stays staring at the door after he's left the cafeteria. It's quiet all of a sudden; the rest of the place has mostly cleared out, every other student at Ilvermorny undoubtedly using whatever means necessary on a Saturday morning to tune into the match. Jon takes a contemplative sip of his orange juice. Lovett turns back to the two of them, gaze unreadable, and sets his fork down on his empty plate. "Explain," he says.

Tommy runs a hand through his blond hair and sighs, sending Jon a helpless look. "We want you to help fix the television in our dorm," Jon says patiently, "because we want you to come and watch this match with us. Because we like spending time with you. Because we like you." He slants a glance at Tommy, who's going faintly pink. "Also because neither of us knows how to fix what we did to your television last time, and you're kind of good at tinkering."

"Oh," Lovett says. "Really." He chews on his lip, uncertain, all of the bluster of the last ten minutes forgotten. "You know I don't know anything about Quodpot, right? The last time there was a final or whatever, I was still going to Syosset Middle School and didn't even know magic was a — a fucking thing that existed."

Jon's heard a lot about Syosset Middle School in Long Island, New York over the past two years. He can't say he has the impulse to burn buildings down very often, but if he were ever to visit, he'd know who exactly to walk up to and give a stern talking to. Tommy would probably punch several people.

When Jon startles out of that thought, Tommy's saying, "We can teach you all the rules," already pulling his wand out to diagram a shining field in the air.

Lovett squints at the shimmering figures, a pensive expression crossing his face. "Is that supposed to be a Quaffle?"

"That's Quidditch again," Tommy says, but he sounds fond.

Jon stands, pilfering one more donut from the stack on the table. "Guys, can we get back to the dorm first, at least?" He glances at the clock again; it's almost half past. "There's a match on."

It takes them a breezy two minutes to get from the cafeteria to the Thunderbird dorm. Jon may have used a speeding charm to zip them across east campus, but no professors are around right now to reprimand them. Tommy Transfigures the dusty Ancient Runes textbook sitting on his desk back into the television when they get there. "You just forgot to plug it into the power source, you idiots," Lovett says, rolling his eyes, but there's no heat to it. He bends down, the long sleeves of his robes rolled up, to tinker with the box.

They've only missed the national anthem and opening roster announcements by the time Lovett's figured out how to tap into the right stream. "So that's the Quod," Jon says, as the Magpies gain opening possession and speed down the pitch in a striking formation. "It's basically an exploding Quaffle."

"Spicy," Lovett says, settling back in between them on Tommy's four-poster. Squashed in together like this, Jon's throat suddenly feels dry. Every place their bodies are touching seems oversensitive.

"You'd know more about this stuff if you came to our matches, you know," Tommy says after a minute, during which the Magpies score twice and the Flyers once. Philadelphia's mascot, some sort of gigantic orange furry thing, paces on the sidelines far below the players. Jon's never had any idea what it's supposed to be, and at this point, he's honestly too afraid to ask. "Now that we've made the team this year and everything," Tommy continues. He meets Jon's eyes over Lovett's curly head of hair.

"Hm," Lovett says, voice languid in Jon's ear. "You think they'd let me announce the games at school if I learned enough?"

"Absolutely not," Jon and Tommy say in unison. Tommy snorts. Jon starts laughing, the rumble of it shaking the bed a little.

"Pity," Lovett says, but he sounds pleased. He nestles in further, head sinking into Tommy's pillows. "I'd make it worth your while." He closes his eyes and raises an imaginary microphone to his mouth. "Tommy Vietor streaks down the pitch with the Quaff — the _Quod_ tucked under one arm. His biceps look like they're about to pop right out of his robes, and the wind flows through his golden locks—"

"Please stop," Jon protests, choking around another laugh, at the same time Tommy says, "Do Jon next."

Lovett cracks one eye open to stare up at Jon, considering. Jon feels his face go hot beneath the scrutiny, and he turns back to the television, blinking at the tiny figures ducking and weaving between each other, passing the Quod down the field. "Favreau scores!" Lovett says, voice low, as the Magpies do on screen. "His face is shining like the sun as his teammates fly over to congratulate him, gap tooth on full display—"

"That's enough, Lovett," Jon says, rolling on top of him in an effort to get him to stop talking. Lovett's eyes snap open when Jon lands on him, and it takes Jon a moment to register the compromising position they've found themselves in. "Um—"

"You should," Tommy says hoarsely. He's so close Jon can feel the heat of his body pressing in all along his left side. Lovett's eyes dart down to Jon's mouth, like he's mesmerized, and Jon's stomach kicks as he bends his head down.

It's a mediocre first kiss, messy and a little too wet, but it's a good kiss insofar as it leads to more, and then Tommy gets involved, and they're a mess of limbs and mouths and hot pressure. At one point, Lovett gasps, "You, you fucking — could have just _asked_ me," and Jon wants to say, _we tried our best_, but the next moment, someone manages to get a hand inside his robes, and there are no more words for a long time.

The Magpies lose the final. Jon's pretty sure, all things considered, that he got the outcome he wanted anyway.


End file.
